


tell me what you want (and i'll give you what you need)

by void_fish



Series: sub dubi [3]
Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - BDSM
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-12
Updated: 2019-01-12
Packaged: 2019-10-08 14:25:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17388020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/void_fish/pseuds/void_fish
Summary: As soon as the other guy’s back hits the ice, Brandon knows what’s coming. He doesn’t look at the bench while he skates to the penalty box. His hand aches.It’s gonna be the least of his worries by the end of the night.





	tell me what you want (and i'll give you what you need)

**Author's Note:**

> sub dubi makes its TRIUMPHANT return, hello hello
> 
> this takes place during and immediately after that devils game where dubi dropped the gloves for the first time in a year and cbj tlist's collective hearts fell out of their collective asses. this is...... almost entirely id fic......enjoy!!!

As soon as the other guy’s back hits the ice, Brandon knows what’s coming. He doesn’t look at the bench while he skates to the penalty box. His hand aches.

It’s gonna be the least of his worries by the end of the night.

He sits in the box and tries to catch his breath. That’s the worst thing about getting older, he thinks. His recovery period goes to shit. A minute and a half into his penalty and he’s still huffing and puffing like he needs a goddamn oxygen tank. 

When he gets freed from the box, he skulks his way back to the bench. He gets   a couple of stick taps, a solid thumb on the shoulder from Torts, whom Brandon knows has been jonesing for him to get back into the physical kind of play he’s best at. 

Brandon ices his knuckles during intermission. He’s had worse fights, but the last thing he needs right now is for his hands to swell up. 

Across the room, Cam is talking to Z in a low mutter. Brandon pretends he’s not watching them, but he catches both of them glancing at him at different points of the talk.

‘I think you’re in trouble,’ Luc says, next to him.

Brandon huffs out a laugh. ‘I’m never in trouble,’ he says. ‘Or I’m always in trouble. It really depends on who you ask, but either way, it’s not a big deal.’

Luc hums. ‘If you say so.’

Brandon sneaks another look over. Z is doing something complicated with a spare skate lace, looping it around his own wrist. Huh.

Before he can contemplate it further, they get herded back to the ice. 

-

Cam brushes past him on the way to the locker room, palms his ass like he always does, but it’s less fond, more like— a warning. 

‘When you’re done,’ he murmurs, going up on his tiptoes briefly to whisper in Brandon’s ear. ‘Remember that you did this to yourself, B.’

Brandon tilts his head, turns to frown at Cam, but he’s gone, disappeared into the sea of union blue jerseys. 

-

There’s a PT bench in the middle of the room. A carpet has been placed over the logo. Brandon quirks one eyebrow, and saunters over to his stall. He very carefully doesn’t make eye contact with any of his teammates. He glances up at one point and sees Murrs leading Boone out of the room.

That’s normally how things go, when subs fuck up. In Columbus, at least. Public punishment is rare. Brandon doesn’t think he’s seen it since he left the Rangers.

He undresses easily, silently. He can feel the tension rolling off of Luc as he wraps a towel around his hips and heads for the shower. He realises that Luc’s probably never seen this before. He gives him a quick look as he heads across the room, and Luc’s eyes are fixed on the bench.

Cam doesn’t bother showering. Boone comes back, gingerly starts undressing, back to his stall, so no one can see the marks, and Cam, disappears into that same room.

Brandon tries to shower off the nerves in his gut, with mixed results. When he comes out, there are— some interesting items on the bench. Cam has changed into a clean t-shirt and some shorts that Brandon is pretty sure are actually his. They’re hanging way lower on Cam’s hips than they should, anyway.

Brandon’s gaze flicks over the items. Athletic tape. Rope. Skate laces. A bottle of lube. A wide, flared plug. A belt.

“Should I even bother drying off?’ Brandon asks. Cam looks up from where he’s looping rope around a couple of fingers, making what looks like a weird sausage of rope, with loose strands coming out of either side.

‘No,’ Cam says, and that’s not his boyfriend. That’s his dom.

It’s been three years and Brandon still shivers when the switch gets flipped. 

‘Lemme guess,’ Brandon says, trying to be as flippant as he can before Cam, probably literally, beats it out of him. ‘Assume the position?’

‘Good guess,’ Cam says, grim, and drops the bundle of rope onto the small stool by the table. ‘Hands behind your back, B.’

That’s… not his usual position, and he falters for a second, before crossing his wrists behind his back.

Something soft covers his wrists and forearms loosely, before Cam picks up the bright blue athletic tape and, starting at the tips of his fingers, wraps long strips of tape around the fabric until Brandon’s hands are locked together. 

‘Test the give,’ Cam says, surprisingly soft. He runs a finger under the edge of the tape to check that it’s not digging in. Brandon pulls a little, twists as much as he can, but it stays put. Nothing feels sharp or tight, just— firm. No pressure on his bad wrist, at least.

‘It’s good,’ he says, and Cam smacks his ass with his bare hand. The crack echoes in the silent locker room.

‘Did I say you could talk?’ he asks. Brandon opens his mouth and then shuts it. He shakes his head.

‘Good,’ Cam says. ‘Your wrists don’t hurt?’

Another shake. 

‘Good,’ Cam repeats. ‘Over to the table.’

Brandon knows this bit. He stands far enough away from the table that Cam can bend him over it. Usually he can brace himself on his elbows, but apparently not today. Cam nudges him closer, though, until he’s practically flush up against the legs. Cam drops to one knee and, starting with a loop around the leg and his ankle, starts winding skate laces around, until it spirals all the way up his leg to mid thigh.

This digs in more than the tape on his wrists, but it’s a good kind of pressure. It’ll keep him focused on something other than the beating. 

Cam repeats the process with the other leg, and Brandon is trapped. He shifts as far as he can, and gets another smack for his troubles.

‘Media’s right outside,’ Cam says. ‘Some guys are gonna be coming and going. You gonna be able to behave with the door opening and shutting all the time?’

Brandon thinks about it. He looks at the items still on the table. He feels like the belt is looking back. Cam’s never hit him with a belt before. He has no idea what it’ll feel like. Some pain is better to muffle than others.

‘I won’t be mad if you say no,’ Cam says, in his ear. ‘I will be mad if you say yes and then make noise anyway.’

Brandon flexes his toes while he thinks. Cam’s never gagged him with anything but his hand before. Nick has, but that was— something else. Brandon deserved that. 

‘I don’t think I can behave,’ Brandon says, quiet.

Cam runs a hand up his side, soothing. ‘Okay,’ he says, and picks up the tangle of rope from before.

He’s gentle when he’s fitting it into Brandon’s mouth. It’s surprisingly bulky stretched between his lips, and when he probes it with his tongue, it doesn’t move. Cam ties it behind his head and slides a finger between the rope and the corners of his mouth, careful. ‘You okay?’ Cam asks.

Brandon nods. 

Cam puts a hand between his shoulder blades and one over his breastbone, and half pushes, half supports his upper body until his chest is flat on the table top. It’s a surprisingly sturdy bench, considering it has most of his 200lbs of bulk on, and hasn’t given even a little. 

‘Can you breathe okay?’ Cam asks, and gets another nod. Brandon’s getting antsy now. He just wants this to be over with. Now that Cam’s stopped touching him, he feels like he can feel every pair of eyes in the locker room.

He distantly hears a door open and close, and then again soon after, and he wriggles.

He doesn’t realise Cam’s picked up the bottle of lube until he’s sliding two fingers into Brandon unceremoniously, and Brandon bites down on the rope. It’s a quick prep job, before Cam is sliding the plug in in one motion, until the flared base is resting between Brandon’s cheeks. 

‘Hey, Fligs?’ Cam asks. ‘Remind Brandon what the standard for a fighting major is?’

‘Ten,’ he says. If Brandon turns his head to face the other way, he’d be looking Fligs in the eye.

‘What do you think Brandon here should get for his fighting major, after he personally promised me he’d never drop the gloves again?’

Guilt flares up in Brandon’s chest.

After last season, after his eye— when Cam had been a hundred percent sure that Brandon was going to be able to _see_ again, let alone play hockey, he’d extracted a promise from him that he’d never fight again.

Brandon had kept it for almost a whole year.

Fligs is quiet, like he’s thinking. ‘Honestly, Atko, I think that’s between you and him.’

Brandon tries to relax his jaw a little. He’s hard, and its’ getting difficult to ignore .

‘Ten now,’ Cam says, dragging the end of the belt over the small of Brandon’s back. ‘Ten later. At home.’

Brandon tries to hold his breath to brace himself for the first hit, but it doesn’t come.

Cam gets unexpectedly called away for media.

‘I’ll be quick,’ he promises, running a calming hand through Brandon’s hair. 

Brandon struggles to standing, makes a sound through the rope, twists his neck to watch Cam leaving the room.

Suddenly, Fligs is there. His hand is warm on Brandon’s back, soothing. Brandon feels a little like a spooked horse. He can stop his eyes rolling or his lips curling up.’I got you, Dub,’ Fligs says. ‘He won’t be gone long.’

Eventually, the heaving in Brandon’s chest subsides. He lets Fligs lay him back down on the table, lets him check all the bindings to make sure he’s not cutting off any circulation, and then Cam is back, striding through the door and immediately to Brandon’s side. 

‘I’m sorry,’ he murmurs, crouching next to Brandon so he can speak quietly. ‘I shouldn’t have gone, are you okay?’

Brandon nods. He knows his eyes are still a little wide, a little unsure, but. He can do this. 

Cam cards through his hair again, wipes away a tear where Brandon’s eyes are watering, and then stands up, disappears from view. 

‘Normally I’d make you count,’ he says. ‘But I think I’ll let you off this time.’

The first hit isn’t too bad. It almost glances off of him, and Brandon barely moves. Maybe this won’t be so bad, he thinks. 

The second hit feels like it’s slicing his skin open, and he moves the whole table three inches forward. He grunts into the gag, and bites down as hard as he can, until his jaw aches. 

Three and four are just as bad, and by the time Cam’s reached six, Brandon can feel stripes of fire on his ass where Cam’s managed to layer them almost from the small of his back to the tops of his thighs.

Seven hits the base of the plug, and Brandon can’t help but make a sound, not quite a scream but almost, as it knocks against his prostate and his hard cock drags along the surface of the table, now slick with precome and sweat. 

Brandon doesn’t realise he’s at ten until Cam tells him, running a hand up his spine. Brandon’s chest is heaving again as he tries to breathe around the gag, and Cam unties that first, easing the rope out of his mouth and pressing an apologetic thumb to the sore spots on the corners of his mouth.  

‘I have to do that again later?’ Brandon asks, as Cam stands him up again and starts undoing the laces holding him to the table. Fligs is there again, holding him steady. 

‘Not tonight,’ Cam says. ‘I didn’t realise that was going to be so rough on you.’

The room has started clearing out around him. NHL ruling says that teams have to be present for public punishment, but nothing about afterward. Brandon thinks if he just had to watch a teammate get beaten to tears, he wouldn’t want to hang around either. 

Brandon’s jaw hurts. His dick is still hard, which seems like the cruelest humiliation, that he has to go through that and isn‘t even going to get off. 

Cam helps him into shorts, wraps an oversized zip up around his shoulders to hide the fact that his arms are still bound. ‘Come on,’ he says. ‘Home, B.’

‘You’re not untying me?’ Brandon asks. 

‘You’re not done,’ Cam says, and grips his elbow, tugging him out of the room. 

They took long enough that the parking lot is basically empty, and Cam can escort Brandon in relative silence and privacy.

Sitting down is— horrific. The plug shifts and moves inside him, and no amount of padding can make the welts on his ass not hurt every time Cam hits a bump.

Brandon is drenched with sweat by the time they’re pulling into the parking lot of Cam’s apartment building. He’s not sure what hurts more, his ass or his dick. Cam takes great care not to touch either as he helps him out of the car. 

Brandon flexes his hands as much as he can. He’s glad tomorrow is an off day; between the beating and his shoulders, he’s going to need it.

He’s not expecting Cam to bend him over the couch as soon as the front door shuts, but— it’s what happens, hand on the scruff of Brandon’s neck, other hand pulling the loose fitting shorts down and palming the tender parts of his ass.

‘God, you’re _such_ an asshole,’ Cam says, gripping the base of the plug and pulling at it until Brandon makes a sound, tries to follow it. ‘You _promised_ , B.’

Brandon wants to apologise, but he doesn’t think this is about apologising. He stays quiet. Cam keeps fucking him with the plug until he’s shaking, has to lock his knees to stay on his feet. The couch is soft on his cheek but Cam’s hand is rough on his neck, holding him down way too easily. 

If it was anyone else. Brandon would be fighting tooth and nail to be free. As it is, he grits his teeth and tries not to let a whimper escape when Cam finally pulls the plug out, lets it hit the floor with a thunk. Brandon clenches around nothing and arches his back. Cam hits him on a welt. Not hard, a barely there tap, but it hurts enough that Brandon freezes.

‘Why can’t you just learn to behave?’ Cam asks, and at some point apparently shoved his own shorts down, because he’s sliding into Brandon like he belongs there.

It’s not romantic, like it can be with Cam. It’s not even particularly _good_ , just Cam fucking into him without ceremony, hand ever present on the back of his neck. Brandon wonders if he’ll bruise there, too. 

‘I don’t remember the last time I was as scared as I was watching you drop the gloves,’ Cam says, rhythm steady. ‘You’ve never broken a promise before.’

His voice cracks, the tiniest bit, and suddenly, Brandon understands the hand on the back of his neck, the bruises. Cam isn’t the usual dom, who needs to assert his dominance every chance he gets, but. He needs to prove to himself that Brandon is his. He needs to remind Brandon that they’re together. That he’s Brandon’s dom, and that Brandon hurt him. 

The guilt spikes. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, turning his face to see Cam as best he can. He aches to have his hands free; he wants to reach for him. 

Cam waits a beat before responding. “I know, B.”

Brandon’s ass hurts. His shoulders hurt. Cam keeps moving, fucking in and out of him. Brandon knows that Cam isn’t going to help him tonight, either he gets off from this or he goes to bed hard. He stands there, bent over the couch, and lets Cam fuck him, because they both need this. 

His orgasm feels unimportant, when it finally rolls through him. It’s good, sure, but Brandon’s been on a knife edge since Cam tied him to the table, and it’s more like that first heaving breath after being trapped underwater than a sexual thing.

He sags against the couch, muscles spasming. He’s only still standing because of Cam, holding him in place. 

“I got you,” Cam says, letting go off the back of his neck and wrapping the arm around his waist. That’s how Brandon knows he’s done. Cam pulls him upright, kisses his delt, and leads him into the bedroom.

He has to use nail scissors to cut his bound hands free, and Brandon’s arms tingle from shoulder to fingertip. Cam rubs the feeling back in, kisses the palm of his hand. 

“Don’t do that again,” he whispers, when Brandon is curled in his arms, dozing off.  “All I saw when you dropped the gloves was you with blood pouring from your eye and your cheek half caved in. Please, B, I can’t— not again.”

Brandon has to fight the haze of sleep. “I don’t think I can promise that,” he admits, and feels Cam go stiff against him. “I mean— I’m not going to fight over losing my temper,” he says. “i can promise you that. But— I gotta protect my guys, Cam. What if someone hurts Fligs, or Luc, or _you_?”

Cam is quiet. 

‘I’m sorry,” Brandon says again. “But I don’t want to make a promise I can’t keep again.”

“If you drop the gloves I’m going to have to punish you like I’d punish any sub,” Cam says. “But— I won’t ask you to make a promise you won’t keep.”

Brandon’s gut is still churning with guilt. Cam puts  a hand over it and rubs small, soothing circles, like he knows.

“I shouldn’t have made you promise it,” Cam says. “But I just— couldn’t stop thinking about it. You could have never played again.”

“I know,” Brandon says. “That’s why— the visor. And I scared myself doing that, Cam, I really— but if someone threatens you on the ice, I don’t know that I can skate away.”

Cam kisses the back of his neck. Brandon can feel himself drifting a little, between the ache in his ass and the small touches of Cam’s hands. Cam doesn’t say anything else, and Brandon lets himself fall. 

-

 

 

 

 

 

 

Brandon drops the gloves again two games later. The welts are still livid, but when he gets back to the locker room after the game, there’s no bench. No kneeling. Cam treats him like normal, all the way until they get home. 

“Remember the ten extra I decided on?” he asks, as Brandon braces himself on the dinner table. 

Brandon glances over his shoulder. Cam is holding a paddle, union blue with 13 painted on it. He takes a breath. 


End file.
